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I felt like a thief with a bagful of stolen glances.

Jeanette Winterson

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Jeanette Winterson
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: August 27
Author
Film Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
Manchester
England
Thief
Glances
Thieves
Stolen
Felt
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Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?
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Art is a foreign city, and we deceive ourselves when we think it familiar. We have to recognize that the language of art, all art, is not our mother tongue.
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The rebellion of art is a daily rebellion against the state of living death routinely called real life.
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Working-class families in the north of England used to hear the 1611 Bible regularly at church and at home ... for us, the language didn't seem too difficult. I especially liked 'the quick and the dead' - you really get a feel for the difference if you live in a house with mice and a mousetrap.
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That walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.
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I think every work of art is an act of faith, or we wouldn't bother to do it. It is a message in a bottle, a shout in the dark. It's saying, 'I'm here and I believe that you are somewhere and that you will answer if necessary across time, not necessarily in my lifetime.'
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The journey is not linear, it is always back and forth, denying the calendar, the wrinkles and lines of the body.
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You've got these twenty million people who call themselves the Evangelical Christians who will put their hand up and say, I believe in the devil, I'm against abortion and gay rights, and we have to blow up the world. It's frightening.
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When I say 'I will be true to you' I am drawing a quiet space beyond the reach of other desires.
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What is remembered is not a deed in stone but a metaphor. Meta = above. Pheren = to carry. That which is carried above the literalness of life. A way of thinking that avoids the problems of gravity. The word won't let me down. The single word that can release me from all that unuttered weight.
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Writers have to have a knack for listening. I need to be able to hear what is being said to me by the voices I create.
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Books, for me, are a home. Books don’t make a home – they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and a different kind of space.
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We fear passion and laugh at too much love and those who love too much. And still we long to feel.
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Their throats were bare for God.
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Love ... Just Nature's way of getting one person to pay the bills for another person.
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To kiss well one must kiss solely. No groping hands or stammering hearts. The lips and the lips alone are the pleasure. Passion is sweeter split strand by strand. Divided and re-divided like mercury then gathered up only at the last moment.
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I know I've had an unusual beginning and a colourful life, but that wouldn't matter if I couldn't make it speak to other people.
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Whether you want to call it God or the mystery of the cosmos doesn't matter to me.
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I lay there, stretched out, looking at the one star visible through the tiny window of the room. Only connect. How can you do that when the connections are broken?
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Confidence and superiority: It's the usual fundamentalist stuff: I've got the truth, and you haven't.
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